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LEAVES 



A JOURNAL. 



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MDCCCXLIV. 



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EDINBURGH \ PRINTED BY THOMAS CONSTABLE, 
TRIN'TER TO HER MAJESTY. 



205449 
'13 



PREFACE. 



J. his trivial volume is not intended as a publication. Its pages 
are merely presented in this form to a few friends who may wish to 
know what were my thoughts while abroad. In the life of one 
necessarily confined, year after year, to the seat of his professional 
labours, — crossing the Alps and Appenines, and passing some weeks 
in Italy is an event. Those who take an interest in the individual 
may therefore be happy to see some record of what chiefly dazzled 
his imagination, or touched his heart. I kept no regular journal, as 
my movements were too rapid, and my observations necessarily very 
superficial. It would, no doubt, have been easy to have compiled 
one on the ordinary principles, describing all I had seen or travelled 
over (with perhaps something more) having recourse, all the time, 
to the guide-book for statistics, for politics to the postilion, and for 
learning to the laquais de place. But I thought it better merely 
to endeavour to sketch the most striking scenes I visited, and to record 
such impressions as appeared to me at the time worthy of being pre- 
vented from passing away. All I have attempted is a mere out- 



" Within the book and volume of my brain." — Hamlet. 

Book of my brain ! these leaves together bound, 

To save their fading, are with hasty hand 

Culled from thy store, where, gathered day by day, 

Fond Memory coils within her fleeting folds 

(As nature opens out her volume vast 

To all who come with artless soul to read,) 

Such varied treasures as the mind can hold. 

I may not hope the fruitage from her lap 

Has found fit record here. But if one dew-drop 

Fall on the page, or one responsive sigh 

Be echoed to my lay, — then not in vain 

Is this poor garland, as a gift of love, 

Devoted to the friends who can forgive 

The song, though rude, for sake of him who sung. 



ON THE DUOMO, MILAN. 



What though from hate of priestly pomp and power, 

Perchance a little tinged with bigot zeal, 

And the stern tenets of his ruder times, 

The poet of the Fall of Man denounced 

The friars' trumpery. Though our simple forms 

Require not golden altar, gonfalon, 

Crozier, or mitre deck'd with precious gems, 

Censer of burning myrrh, or useless flame, 

Sickening beneath the sunbeam ? Yet, oh yet, 

Call not this pious labour mockery, 

Nor turn with methodistic eye away. 

Who shall decide lohere form alone prevails, 

Burying religion in hev chill embrace 1 

The rudest and the richest both, alas, 

Have outward show ; and, in the silken robe 

Of priest reformed, or trim Geneva band, 

Or suit of simplest sable, may there be 

Form without truth, as by the rubied shrine, 

Or golden glare of sacerdotal pomp. 

Lift then thine eyes with them, unto the God 

Of Heaven, whose service we and they profess ; 

Nor deem, presumptuous, thou alone art pure. 

The God of Nature builds his temples bright : 

The glory of the morn, the evening sun, 



10 



The fleecy clouds, the ever rolling waters, 
The dewy shrubs and trees, the silver moon, 
The glittering stars, the golden mountain tops, 
The earth herself, bedeck'd in beauteous green, 
Amidst the music of her thousand streams. — 
These all are glorious — these His handiwork ! 
Why, then, despise that pomp which piety 
And faith enjoin, hallowed by age on age, 
And by the hosts of Christendom revered ? 

Milan, 20th August. ' 



THE LAST SUPPER OF LEONARDO DA VINCI. 



Defaced, retouched, dilapidated, torn, 

And like the ceaseless tide of human life 

In revolutions tost, — neglect and scorn, 

Violence alternating with care mispent 

Changing thy hues, — yet 'midst thy ruin still 

How beauteous thou !— still can the thoughtful eye 

Discern a ray of light amidst the gloom, 

See in the young disciple faith and hope, 

And in the Saviour, love, beatitude ! 

Yet all is fading fast ; and time, relentless, 

With dewy fingers will, from day to day, 

Efface thy sacred glories more and more, 

Leaving thee mouldering with the dust from which 

Thou and the hand that gave thee birth, have sprung. 

Nor Leonardo ! this thy fate alone ; 

The means are human though the art divine, 

And Titian's tenderest touch, the glow of Eubens, 

The holy rapture of Raphaelle, the grace 

Of Carlo Dolce, or of greater Guido, 

And even the magic might of Michael Angelo ; — 

All that man fashions, to the touch of Time 

Yields in its turn. 



Give me then, Nature's never-dying hues, 
Give me the mighty Rhine's majestic march, 



12 



Or, gliding through her golden meads, the Po ; 
Give me the sunshine on the glorious Alps, 
Or softer Appenine ; let the queen of night 
Rule in her beauty o'er the Adrian wave, 
Or tinge the heights of Fesole, or Florence, 
With cypress dark, and silver olives clad. 
Let others dwell on painting's soothing calm, 
The mild repose of Raphael's raptured saints, 
Lorraine's still quiet, and the slumbering domes 
Of Canaletti. — Is their calm more deep 
Than that which rests upon the mountain tops 
At early morn, or 'midst the noon-day sky ? 
Nor say the murmur of the wandering bee, 
Or chirp of grasshopper, or falling shower 
In summer eve, or voice of plaintive bird, 
Or motion of the dweller in the brook, 
Disturbs oiu' quiet dreams, more than the breath 
That hardly shakes the trembling aspen leaf, 
Or snow-flake falling on the lonelv Tarn. — 
Nature, I am thine own ! 

Milan, September 1844. 



VENICE. 



Was there not room enough for them on earth, 

That thus they built a city in the sea ? 

Or were the masters of the mighty main, 

Who reared thy marble palaces on sand — 

Amidst the ocean's weeds — bound by their vow 

Of annual wedlock to their Adrian spouse, 

Never to rest their feet on pebbled shore ? 

Or sought they thus to guard from foreign foe, 

The golden stores of royal merchandize — 

Piled 'midst the waves — that here they planted thee ? 

Thy glory did abound, what time the east 
Poured forth her treasures with incessant flow, 
Strewing thy haven with her glittering masts ; 
When like rays streaming from thy central sun, 
Her wealth was wafted o'er the western world — 
Wafted even to our isle — the mightier mistress 
Of the waves, whose riper glories now transcend 
Ten thousand times thine own, wrenching the East 
From thee, and from the world ; her banner planting 
In cold Canadian wastes, Australian plains, 
Or 'midst the spicy fields of Hinclostan, 
Where ev'n the memory of thy name is lost. 
Where now thy Doges — Councils of ten and three, 
Assembled Senates, Nunciates, Churchmen proud? 
Cruel tribunals, where the accuser spake 



14 



But through the lion's mouth, fit orifice 

For falsehood and for malice ? — where one step 

Led from the judgment chamber to the vault, 

And from that vault another to the wave — 

Strange interminglement of death and pomp, 

Of guilt and glory, servitude and freedom ! 

In Wisdom's seat sate stolid superstition, 

By bigotry and fiery zeal supported — 

The scales of justice broken at their feet, 

And by their side, — fast bound — mercy and truth ! 

Unlike thou wert in days gone by, and now 

Unlike thou art to other cities — save 

In this, that time brings ruin in his train, 

Thy strong foundations sapping, — crumbling down 

Marble and monument, arch, statue, tablet, 

Brazen or gold ; and to the meanest uses 

Turning thy halls and palaces of state. 

Yet let me not repine for glory lost ; 

For still thou dwell'st in beauty 'midst decay, 

While every being moving in thy streets, 

Moves with a grace. — The common Gondolier, 

Vender of Avater, fruits, or flowers, or spice ; 

And even the beggar, lounging by the square 

Of Great St. Mark, or slumbering by some porch 

Antique or Saracenic, while he casts 

A shadow o'er the tessellated pavement, 

In easy posture sleeps, and, as he sleej)s, 

Dreams of the glories of the days gone by. 

Visions of other, better days arise, 

And though I would not touch one antique relic 

Save with the hand of holiest veneration — 



15 



'Twere sickly sentiment to mourn return 

Of commerce, happiness, ease, plenty, peace — 

Blessing the people with reviving light, 

Soft as the sky which shines above thy domes. 

Will this new weapon in the hand of man — 
By which the element of fire at will, 
Controls the waters, scorns the winds, and with 
The speed, as of the lightning, spans the earth, 
Do nought for thee? Already hath it linked 'thee 
Unto the land — May not its might even yet 
Reanimate thy soul-deserted frame ? 

Venice, 21ih August 1844. 



m ,. ^ntmm. i ^ j 



CAMPO SANTO INGLESE, LEGHORN. 



SMOLLETT AND HOKXEK. 



Various tlie tracks which lead the sons of genius 

Up that steep mount, where from her golden throne, 

Fame sends her glories forth ; and few who climb, 

Approach the summit, strive they ne'er so hard — 

What boots, alas, the strife, when all is o'er ! 

By different paths, these sought her perilous seat, 

Both gathering on then" way unfading wreaths. 

Blossoms of truth and love, cull'd from the lap 

Of Nature ; knowledge of the ways of man, 

Wit, pathos, power, are writ, thou earlier born 

And longer spared ! upon thy deathless page. 

AikI thou the latest taken ! In spring time 

Of thy beneficent career cut off, 

Learned in the craft of state, persuasive, wise, 

Didst in thy life a bright example set, 

Of manly worth, by manners mild attempered. 

Here rest ye, not amidst the strangers' dust, 

Where tablet, cypress, wild-flowers mark your graves. 

And many a Scottish wanderer drops a tear 

Where Horner lies ; — or sighs that Smollett sleeps 

So far from Leven's banks and Scotland's sky. 

Though thus together he her sons, whose paths 

In life lay far asunder, yet the land 

That loved them mourns the fate of both ; and losing 

Their ashes, consecrates instead their name. 

Leghorn, Sih September 184 i. 



AMPHITHEATRE, POZZUOLI. 



Lo, Baias's beauteous bay beneath me spreads ! 

Glitter the Luerine and Avernine lakes, 

The Sybil's haunted grot, dull Acheron, 

The whispering shrine of feathered Mercury, 

The Elysian fields — the grove where Venus sported, 

The lonely pillars of Serapian Jove, 

Glassed in the wave which laves their oozy feet, 

The Appian Way beyond, and dimly seen, 

The mild retreat of gentle Cicero ! 

These magic words still speak of Roman glory — 

And as the thunder roll'd above my head, 

And echoed through these grass-grown walls, where thousands 

Once shouted while the gladiator fell, 

My heart, oppressed with shadows of the past — 

Trembled tumultuously. 

What scenes, O Nature, hast thou spread around ! 
Isles of surpassing loveliness — that seem 
The very gems of Neptune's diadem — 
Mountains which from the dark blue waters spring — 
And to the sea give back an ecpial beauty- 
Sulphureous spots, whose ever smouldering flames, 
Whisper of fires primeval — while Vesuvius, 
Making, like jealousy, " the food he feeds on," 
Burns with a splendour inextinguishable. 



18 



Lo ! at his feet — the clustering vine, the fig, 
The cactus, and the olive, and the palm — 
The rarer orange, with her golden glare, 
Glistening amidst the fruits of common growth, 
And countless wild flowers, every spot bedecking. 

But who the tenants of the land, whose breezes 
Breathe living loveliness — and glory gone ? 
Alas ! oppression, — crime, her eldest born — 
Disease and poverty, falsehood and fraud, 
With folly in their train — permeate through all ; 
Trade seeking truth in vain, to other shores 
Unfurls her trusty sails — while learning grave, 
The best beloved of freedom — shuns the realm, 
And finds in western climes a fitter home. 

Hath Naples then no remnant of antiquity ? 
Let superstition's thousand tongues reply. 
The wonders of Our Lady of the Grotto, 
What are they but the Sybd's sorceries ; 
Was not the blood shed to Serapian Jove, 
As potent as the Januarian font, 
That bubbles forth at Solfatara's shrine ? 

PozztJOLl, Wth September 1844. 



POMPEII. 



Temples of Jove and Isis, from the sand 

Rising in sunny clustered beauty, hail ! 

Your worshippers are fled; your priests have fallen : 

Pompeii's kindred deities are gone ; 

Broken their effigies ; their shrines decayed. 

Hush'd the tribunal, where to combat doom'd 

Guiltless or guilty stood the slave forlorn. 

No sound comes from the theatre of blood 

Save hum of lizard, grasshopper, or bee. 

Within the senate hall the snake lies coil'd, 

The orator is dumb — the patriot cold. 

In thy soft garden bowers and quiet homes 

Beauty has lost her smile, and love her pow'r. 

The Forum is forsaken. Hushed the crowd 

That in the busy mart jostled for gain. 

The chariot wheels along the well-worn stones 

Move not. The jars of wine and oil are empty. 

Broken the grinding stones ; the hearths are cold. 

The gold within its master's grasp is sealed. 

The armourer, the smith, the labourer rests, 

The slave and prisoner, from his chains set free. 

The sentinel keeps his post, an armed atomy ! 

Fountains and baths are dry. The sports are ended. 

Tragic and comic theatres repose ; 

The actors rest. The wrestlers struggle not. 



20 



The mummer's jest is o'er. The song is hush'd ; 
The minstrel's harp is broke ; the wine cup fall'n. 

Nor is it holy rite, or public care, 
Domestic joy alone, or gain, or strife, 
That here lie buried in a common calm. 
The wail of poverty, the cry of sorrow, 
The complicated ills of life have ceased, 
Within these walls two thousand years ago. 
For death, the great deliverer, arm'd with fire 
Volcanic, from his seat swept fiercely down, 
And in an ashy ruin whelmed them all. 
The sea itself, from its conflicting foe 
Shrinking in fear, no longer laved thy walls. 

From age to age darkness and dull oblivion 

Had sealed thee fast, till chance thy cerements burst, 

And to the garish light of day disclosed 

Thine awful tomb — to those that dreamt not of thee. 

Slowly and piecemeal have they rent thy bands, 

Thy buried form as yet not half disclosed. 

But they have ta'en the treasures from thy halls — 

Silver, and gold, and gems, with wondrous art 

Incrusted, — vases, urns, sarcophagi, 

Penates from each niche, the lamps that lit them ; 

Statues of bronze or marble ; — from the floors 

Inwrought mosaic — from the walls and ceilings 

Reliefs and frescoes, solemn or grotesque, 

All fresh as when they left the limner's hand. 

And they haA r e gathered up thy household gear, 

Thine implements of trade and war — thine ornaments 

And wearing tire, from out the wearer's ashes. 

Ah ! could one voice have spoken from the grave, 



21 



What tales of ages past its lips had uttered ! 
But the sealed tombstone opens not again — 
The severed thread unites not — the quench' d flax 
Revives no more. 

Since freighted galleys harboured in thy ports, 
And chariots jostled on thine Appian Way, 
Charged with the costly merchandize of Rome — 
Or nearer Herculaneum — how unchanged ! 
Yet all thy streets are tenantless, save one, 
Fast by the northern gate, where sleep the dead, 
Who found their rest before thy ruin fell. 
Happiest their fate. Fair sepulchre, adieu ! 

Pompeii, 1 4th September 1 844. 






ROME. 



Rashly 'twas writ — though soft the lay — yet rashly - 

That Rome's sole dowry is the beauteous sky 

That bends above her hills, and temples fallen, 

As if her noblest name could ever die. 

To me she seems with richest treasures crown' d, 

With glory and with grandeur all her own, 

Leaving all other cities likened to her, 

As stars amidst the firmament — when the moon 

In pensive beauty crowns the parted day. 

Oh, could I paint in colours due the shapes 
Of power and beauty which thy sight awakens, 
Then were these dreams worthy the light of day ; 
But mighty hands have made the stringed harp, 
Resound the music of thy majesty ; — 
The last and saddest echo from his lyre, 
Who, with the spell of genius and of truth, 
Mingled with beauty, grace, and tenderness, 
In exile harped the glories of the land. 
Yet let me rudely fix my recollections, 
And thus to friendship's partial eye alone 
Present this record of my thoughts at Rome. 

When first, we enter at thy gates ; when last 

We leave thy walls, where'er we roam within thee : 



23 



One feeling haunts us, wander where we may — 

'Tis of the union not to be divorced, 

Which links thy modern with thine ancient soil. 

Strangely the Heathen and the Christian world 

Have mixed their wonders on this chosen spot. 

The temple, where the sacred fire was cherished 

By vestal virgins, is a Romish shrine ; 

Beneath the rude Pantheon's open roof, 

Devoted relic, crucifix, and font, 

Blend in confusion ; every niche has found 

A tenant, stranger to its destiny ; 

Each altar of the gods of old is changed ; 

The urns, robbed of their ashes, with the dust 

Of modern priests are filled. Hallowed to saints 

The Coliseum's bloody floor ; and where 

The revelry of Dioclesian's baths 

Luxurious erst was heard, — the sound uprises 

Of Aves chanted by the solemn choir ! 

Yet 'midst this strange commixtion, over all 

Reigns beauty — present peace — And the rapt soul 

Grows pensiA-e, while we pass where new and old 

Together lodge, as in a living grave. 

Nor suits the scene the pensive heart alone, 

Each character of mind finds refuge here. 

The man who peers with antiquarian eye, 

May trace the bas-reliefs on Trajan's column ; 

The story writ on arch of Constantine, 

Of Titus, or Severus ; or pore o'er 

The faded fretwork of Rienzi's halls. 

Or if he pant to realize the past, 

Bid him contemplate that majestic mound 



24 



Within whose halls — amidst their savage games, 
And drunk with blood, sat consuls, emperors, kings ;- 
While overhead, tier upon tier up piled, 
The countless crowd shouted the victor's name ; 
And Roman maidens, tired in festive garb, 
Dropt not a tear, while blood of Nubian captive, 
Welled forth, and set the struggling prisoner free. 
Silent is now that scene of blood and strife, 
Save when the voice of wandering priest is heard, 
Muttering his evening prayers before the cross, 
Seen dim amidst the stern arena's waste. 

Nor say that even the modem city wants 
A grandeur of her own. Ascend Montorio, 
And see her splendour in its full display — 
Domes, obelisks, towers, Campaniles, palaces, 
And countless columns rising to the sky. 
From her vast temple on the northern side 
Survey her westward to St. Mary's shrine, 
Or fair St. John's, beneath whose portico 
The pensive penitent climbs on his knees 
The holy stairs, down which our Lord descended, 
Leaving the judgment seat ; whose cloisters mild 
Boast of the woman of Samaria's well, 
Pillars of Pilate, and the column shattered 
When the holy temple's self was rent in twain. 
Look to the south, where New St. Paul's arises, 
Along the Appian Way, far extra mural, 
Throughout the dark Campagna's spacious bounds, 
With mighty nameless ruins overspread ; 
From Cassar's palace on the Palatine, 
To fair Msetella's tomb, while interlaced, 
The grape, the cypress, pine, and Ilex dark, 



25 



And fair acacia, crown the heights around ; — 

And on the far horizon, softly blue, 

Wavers the outline of the Sabine hills. 

One spot my eye most loved to mark, where, decked 

With flowers, they sleep in peace by Cestius' tomb, 

Who from my native land have wandered hither, 

A little to extend the fine spun thread 

Which, ah how soon ! in softest summer breeze, 

Melts like the gossamer ; until they find 

That peace Avhich sound of morn disturbs no more. 

But shall I pass thy other glories by, 
Unheeded or unnoticed ? Enter with me 
That noblest structure reared by human hand, 
Worthiest the worship of the living God. 
Let the cold critic cavil as he may 
At varied orders, and at rule despised, 
Measure proportions with his rule and square, 
Weigh in his scrupulous scales thine ornaments, 
Trace in detail thy monumental stones, 
Thy gems, and rich mosaics, gold and silver, 
I look but to thine object and thy power, 
I cast my eye along thy vaulted roof, 
And feel thy matchless and sublime design 
See from thy mercy-seat the dove of peace 
Brooding, in solitary ray of gold, 
And to the penitent, in name of Him 
Who keeps the keys of heaven, " pardon and peaces- 
Proclaiming. Precious thought for them who trust !- 
See on the marble floor yon cardinal, 
Kneeling in cloth of gold, — in meekness there 
Together kneel the noble and the monk, 
The ladies of the land, the poor, the rich, 



26 



The young, the old, the gay, the wretched outcast, 

Bowing together in the house of God. 

See near that Baldachin of porphyry, 

Which guards the saint, — fast by the hundred lamps 

That ceaseless shine above the Apostle's tomb, — 

In silent admiration, on his spear, 

Leans the rude peasant of those hills, that skirt 

The Pontine northward to Albano's groves. 

Most fit that thus the house of prayer should be 

Open like charity, and calm like peace. 

Oh may it bring that peace which passeth knowledge, 

And to the wearied soul give welcome rest ! 

Tell me not then that Rome's best dowry is 

The beauty of her sky ; beauteous indeed 

It is beneath the summer sun, when forth 

He shines in ruby, sapphire, diamond gold ; 

Or when the softer mistress of the night 

Scatters around silver and amethyst ; 

But Rome's best portion is her noble name. 

That 'midst the changing seasons, knows no change. 

Great names and things die not ; the passing time 

But hallows them the more ; — so 'tis with Rome 

To which I bend a willing knee, and with 

An humble pensive reverence, bid — Farewell ! 

Rome, 25th September 1844. 



FLORENCE, ON RETURN. 

Why looks fair Florence fairer than before ? 
Her groves more rich, loftier her Appenine ? 
The river murmurs with a gentler flow ; 
Villas and vineyards look more sweet ; more happy 
The homesteads ; all Val d'Arno brighter beams : 
Greater the glee through gladsome Tuscany. 

Come we from colder clime, from land less beauteous % 

Were their memorials of the time gone by 

More meagre, or the works of art less bright ? 

No ! for by Naples' bay our course has been, 

The fairest even in this enchanted land. 

Pozzuoli and Pompeii's placid peace, 

Have touched our hearts with sympathy and love ; 

Ancient and modern Rome for us disclosed 

Their countless treasures — from the Coliseum 

To the great temple of the Christian world, 

And princely Vatican : — while yet more late 

We left Perugia's heights, and Ami's vales. 

Or shines the sun more brightly ; does the air 

More balmy breathe — along these olive slopes, 

Through summer's soft advance and golden days ? 

No ! rather say the closing Autumn casts 

A shade around, and the half-faded leaf 

Tells of the winter's near and sere approach, 



28 



What then thus brightens all the beauteous scene % 

Well was it writ by him who swayed the power 

Of fancy, " In the mind alone doth lie 

The source of all that's beauteous and sublime." 

It is the star guiding us northward still, 

To our home beloved, which lightens thus the land. 

Nor say the cold in clime are cold in love. — 

The love of country, noblest of its class 

Burns strongest in then breasts ; and, in its train, 

Brings honour, virtue, charity, and peace. 

Florence, 29th September 1844. 






DOMO D'OSSOLA. 



'Tis fit these mountains most magnificent, 

With verdure canopied should close the scene, 

And as upon yon snowy peak afar, 

The setting sun expends his parting ray, 

He bids me call to mind thy beauties parting, 

Fail' Italy ! for ever from mine eye. 

Thy spirit seized my heart at once ; and let 

My last emotion, — like my first be, love. 

Thy beauteous land I've traced from north to south, 

"Where o'er the sea Vesuvius lifts his brow, 

To the stern Alps which guard thy northern bound, 

From Genoa to the City of the Sea. 

I've seen the morning sun, in beauty light 

That glorious bay, which bears the name of Naples,- 

And in his evening's splendour, sink beneath 

The Adrian wave. I've seen his noontide rays 

Flaming on Como, or Maggiore's isles, 

Gilding Perugia's or Assisi's heights, 

Amidst the wooded Appenine, and through 

Pompeii's ruins, — as in mockeiy — glaring. 

I've seen the moon shed her soft rays o'er Florence, 

O'er Thrasimene, and the Flavian mound ; 

The stars bespangling all the deep Tyrrhene 

In clustered beauty, — with the silver)- olives, 



-.—--. 



30 



Mingling their rays; in Jove's Serapian temple, 
Heard the waves murmur by Pozzuoli's beach, 
While thunder shook the land in unison, 
And over thy proud Basilicas beheld 
The flashing lightning, thou imperial Rome ! 

But 'midst this splendour, oh, what moral darkness 

Bi'oods o'er all ! Where is thy learning now, 

Thine enterprize, thy freedom, where are they % 

Thy merchant kings of Genoa and of Venice % 

Where now thy Pontiff's power, whose written thunders 

Shook Christendom from east to west, while Princes 

Bent at his feet the supple subject knee % 

Broken asunder, into kingdoms, dukedoms, 

Poor principalities and powers divided. 

True that, the Austrian's stern but just dominion, 

Through fertile Lombardy spreads power and peace ; 

That at his bidding slowly mighty Venice 

Lifts her dejected but majestic head ; 

That Genoa at Sardinia's call revives, 

With half her ancient industry and wealth ; 

That jocund Tuscany, beneath a sway, 

Mild and yet firm, smiles 'midst her olive groves, 

And busy merchants crowd Livorno's mart. 

Ah me ! within thy bounds these are but specks — 

But roses blooming rarely here and there, 

To mark the site where once a garden stood. 

On thy wide surface Sadness sets her seal. 

Dull ignorance and superstition dwell 

Within thee ; industry finds no reward. 

Thy nobles, like thy princely merchants, sink 

Into forgetfulness ; their palaces 

Are now the stranger's home— or else forsaken. 



31 



Could truth, -with energy, her sister fair, 
Land on thy shores ! Could British enterprize 
Inspire thee with congenial emulation — 
Then might thy mists dispel, and on thy soil 
The old familiar fame of Rome revive ! 



5/// October, 1844. 



IN THE SIMPLON. 



Basilicas of Florence, Rome, Milan ! 

With all your architectural tracery 

And pomp, what are ye ? — What ? beside this scene % 

These are the temples of the living God, 

Rear'd by a mightier hand than that of man, 

Their deep foundations to the centre piercing, 

Their summits soaring upward to the sky ; 

Their hoar antiquity creation's dawn ! 

What are your gleaming marbles, gems, and gold, 

To the bright snow reposing on those peaks ; 

Or on the glacier glistening, when the sun 

This sanctuary vast lights with his rays, 

For morning or for ev'ning prayer. Nor lack 

They other ornament : — these countless rocks, 

With herbage interlaced, and here and there 

With mountain rills besprinkled ; — in the clefts, 

The trees in bright October's livery clad ; — 

Such the mosaic wrought by Nature's hand. 

Or with your organ deep, and choral song, 

Compare the voice of roaring cataract — 

Or crash of avalanche : or, 'midst the pines, 

The piping wind, the river's psalmody. 

Then say if piety wants priest or shrine, 

To point the way unto that God, who rides 

Amidst the storm, — nor slumbers in the calm. 

Glh October, 1844. 



■ - - 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

II II 



014 525 291 ft 



f 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 525 291 A 



